


some hearts, sometimes, leave blind

by zozo



Series: Two Faced Twin [2]
Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: AU where MI6 recruits Villanelle, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Mutual Masturbation, Recreational Drug Use, Sharing a Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-01-15 04:03:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18490939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zozo/pseuds/zozo
Summary: Eve and Villanelle go on a mission together. Hijinks ensue.





	1. Mirrors

When the hotel clerk comes up to them, Villanelle sees Eve opening her mouth and rushes to speak first. “ _Ma femme et moi_ ,” she says in bubbly French, “we are on our honeymoon, _oui_? Two nights in your honeymoon suite, _s’il vous plaît!_ ” She hands over the card Carolyn gave them.

The clerk begins to enter their information and Villanelle turns to Eve, who looks equal parts flustered and furious. She leans in close to Villanelle’s ear. “Your _wife?_ ” she hisses.

Villanelle’s mouth is close to Eve’s ear, too, and she nips at Eve’s earlobe, not gently. Eve gasps loudly, and the clerk looks up from her terminal. “ _Un instant,_ ” she says with an indulgent smile, the rest of her sentence— _until you can go upstairs and fuck_ —left unsaid.

Villanelle does nothing to contradict the clerk’s read of the situation. She snatches the key card with a wink the very second the clerk offers it, and whisks Eve away to the elevators so smoothly Eve barely notices they’ve moved.

“Your _wife?!_ ” Eve says again once they’re in the elevator, and Villanelle laughs.

“It’s our cover story,” she says in her Russian accent. “Nobody pays any attention to newlyweds. They just fuck and order room service.”

Eve sputters, and Villanelle shakes her head solemnly. “Don’t they teach you anything at MI6?”

“I just think,” Eve says as they walk down the hall to their room, “you should’ve asked me. Or told me. That we were going to be, pretend to be, _married_.”

Villanelle cocks an eyebrow. “Would you have done something differently? Ooh, would you have felt me up in front of that desk clerk? I could tell she likes to watch.”

Eve swats at her arm. “Don’t be gross.”

“There’s nothing gross about sex, Eve. It’s a beautiful thing.”

But Eve is getting used to Villanelle’s deadpan, and she refuses to take the bait. “Uh-huh. Unlock the damn door, _wife_.”

Villanelle cackles victoriously— _unearned_ , Eve thinks, but she follows her into the suite.

There are… a lot of mirrors. Eve grimaces and tries to avoid her jet-lagged reflection, but it’s nearly impossible. Villanelle gives the room a slow once-over. “Not bad,” she declares. “But what’s with all these mirrors?”

* * *

“Eve!” Villanelle calls into the bathroom. “Your phone is ringing! It is your husband! Should I tell him you have moved on to a new spouse now?”

The bathroom door swings open immediately and Eve yanks the phone out of Villanelle’s grasp with wet hands. She gives the other woman a withering glare and walks into the living area to answer.

“Hi, sweetie,” she says. The words feel hollow in her mouth. She barely recognizes her own voice when she talks to Niko on the phone anymore. It’s different in person, when she can see him and smell him and touch him; when it’s just his voice on the phone, it’s like he’s barely there, like he’s already gone.

“Hi yourself,” he says back. “How’s the work trip?”

“Fine so far. We just got in, me and… Samantha. She’s new, Carolyn brought her in from another department.” Except for the name, it’s almost true.

They chat for another few minutes, Eve excruciatingly aware of Villanelle listening to every word, until she’s distracted by movement out of the corner of her eye.

It’s Villanelle—Villanelle’s reflection, to be exact—and she’s unbuttoning her shirt.

Niko pauses, so Eve says “uh-huh,” and he continues in the same cadence. Villanelle slides her shirt off, lets it drop to the floor. She doesn’t look in the mirror, doesn’t try to catch Eve’s eye, just reaches behind her back to unfasten her bra.

“Really,” Eve says, “no way,” and that seems to be the right thing to get Niko talking again. She can see Villanelle’s back, broad and muscled, free of blemishes or scars. She can see the uninterrupted line of Villanelle’s spine, and in another mirror—oh Christ—she can see Villanelle’s bare breasts.

The hotel room is air conditioned, but Eve’s starting to sweat. She has to get off the phone, but if she does that, the spell will be broken and she’ll be alone in a hotel room with a half-naked Villanelle. Niko, bless his heart, is still nattering about bridge, still satisfied with Eve’s monosyllabic responses, and now Villanelle is bending over and sliding off her trousers.

There’s nowhere to look away. Villanelle’s panty-clad ass is reflected on every wall of the room. This is it, this is how she’s going to murder Eve. This was her plan all along. Strip down to her skivvies and induce a goddamn heart attack.

“Eve?” Niko asks. “Are you still there?”

“Yes!” she says too loudly. “Sorry, uh, Samantha just got here, I was a little distracted.” Villanelle very pointedly does not turn around.

“Ah,” he says. “Well. I can let you go.”

Villanelle is sliding a colourful sundress over her head, the soft cotton flowing around her curves, and Eve thinks she looks just as good as when she was nearly naked.

“Okay,” she says to her husband. “Love you. Bye.”


	2. The Muscle

Intel says a woman named, or codenamed, “Dominique” narrowly escaped recruitment by the same program that trained Villanelle—literally escaped it, and she’s been evading operatives of the Twelve ever since. MI6, through Eve, is here to offer her asylum and bring her back to England, where ideally she’ll be turned into a friendly asset.

The meeting place is a swanky restaurant downtown. They’re supposed to look and act like old friends of Dominique, eat a leisurely dinner, then return with her to their hotel to “catch up.” From there, they’ll be extracted by a team of specialists the next day.

It’s not a risk-free mission, but that’s ostensibly why Villanelle is along.

(“I’m the _muscle?_ ” she’d asked at the briefing, one eyebrow raised.

Carolyn had shrugged. “You’re the only trained hand-to-hand combatant we have who doesn’t look like a trained hand-to-hand combatant, and this mission needs to be as discreet as possible.”

But Villanelle had looked delighted. “I’m the _muscle_ ,” she’d repeated with a grin. “You’re damn right I am.”)

When Dominique walks in, however, Eve spots another potential snag in the mission: Dominique is fucking _gorgeous_. She’s tall and dark-skinned, hair a mess of short ringlets, lithely muscled arms visible in a sleeveless top. When she spots the signal—a red scarf over the back of Eve’s chair—and makes her way to their table, Villanelle leaps to her feet and pulls out Dominique’s seat with a wide smile.

“You must be Dominique,” she says, her voice an octave lower than it was a minute ago. “Such a pleasure to meet you.” She’s even laying on the Russian accent extra thick. Eve swallows a snarky comment and reaches across the table to clasp Dominique’s hands like the old friend she’s supposed to be. “Excellent,” she says with a wide smile she doesn’t feel, “I’m so glad you made it.”

* * *

Dinner is _excruciatingly_ awkward. Dominique’s English isn’t great, so within minutes she and Villanelle are chattering excitedly in French, and Eve gives up trying to follow their conversation almost immediately.

She’s almost completely tuned out by the time dessert arrives, and when she tunes back in she realizes the vibe at the table has completely changed. Dominique and Villanelle are making extremely obvious eyes at each other, and Eve realizes with horror that they’re playing footsie under the table too.

Eve has the insane urge to whip out her phone and Google “how to cock-block your co-worker.” Instead, she eats her vegan cheesecake in a sulk, and while Villanelle is busy laughing too loudly at something Dominique’s said, Eve steals the strawberry off the top of her slice.

* * *

#### 2:11 a.m.

If Villanelle ever comes back to this godforsaken hall of mirrors masquerading as a hotel room, Eve is going to rip her goddamn head off.

They’re here to extract the asset from the _country_ , not her underpants. This is impulsive, it’s unprofessional, it’s putting the entire mission at risk.

Wide awake, so furious she’s almost snarling, Eve considers getting out of bed and raiding the minibar. But if Villanelle comes back and Eve is _waiting up for her_ , she’ll never live it down. (And if she were drunk when Villanelle comes back? God only knows what she’d say.) Instead, she rolls over for the fiftieth time, tries to fluff her pillow, and grinds her teeth in the dark.

There’s a click from the door, then a beep, then a louder click, and light streams in from the hallway. It’s Villanelle. She’s alone. The stream of light thins and vanishes, and the door clicks shut.

For a moment, Eve closes her eyes and considers pretending to be asleep. Letting it slide. Letting Villanelle get away with it. For god’s sake, Eve, who starts a job as an international spy and becomes _more_ of a prude? She’s tired, frankly, of scolding everyone around her for having sex on the job.

But another, louder part of her says _fuck that_. And _call her on her shit_. And something about _consequences_.

She sits up and slaps the bedside light on. “And where the fuck have _you_ been?”

Villanelle’s sundress is rumpled and her hair looks like it’s been hastily finger-combed. She’s wearing considerably less makeup than she left dinner wearing, and she has an easy, loose-limbed sway that’s new to Eve entirely. Anger—or something—bubbles in Eve’s stomach.

“What?” Villanelle shrugs. “You know where I was.”

Eve can only shake her head. If this were Niko coming home late with lipstick on his collar, she’d have rehearsed every cutting word, every vengeful lash of her tongue. But right here, right now, she’s speechless.

Villanelle seems to take her silence as insistence. “I was with Dominique, down the hall. She is… safe.”

 _I bet she is,_ Eve thinks, but even as angry as she is, it’s too petty to say. Villanelle doesn’t seem to know what to make of her tongue-tied reaction.

“Sorry for waking you,” she says, and it sounds genuine. “I’m going to shower and come to bed.”

Eve grunts. “Yeah. Okay. Good night.”

But she’s still awake when Villanelle comes out of the bathroom, hair wrapped in a big fluffy towel, and she’s still awake when Villanelle puts on a nightshirt and crawls into the other side of the king-sized honeymoon-suite bed.

“You’re angry,” Villanelle says into the dark.

Eve doesn’t want to do this. Doesn’t want to talk about it, doesn’t want to fight about it, doesn’t want to fight with Villanelle. She’s so tired she just wants to cry herself to sleep. For a second, and for the first time since she met Carolyn Martens, she misses Niko fiercely—but she dismisses that thought at once.

“I’m just tired,” Eve says. “Sorry I snapped at you.”

“No, you’re angry. Is it because I was with Dominique?”

Eve exhales harshly. It’s almost a growl.

“Ah,” says Villanelle. “I see.”

Eve wants to throw herself out the window.

“I am sorry, Eve. I didn’t realize you felt that way.”

Eve is _going to_ throw herself out the window.

“Listen,” Villanelle continues soberly. “Next time, I promise… I will invite you along for a threesome.”

No. Eve’s going to throw _Villanelle_ out the window.


	3. Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that, with this chapter, the rating of this fic goes up to Explicit.

If Villanelle snores, or talks in her sleep, Eve doesn’t know about it. She sleeps like a rock, and when she finally eases into consciousness, morning light is filtering through pink curtains, giving the room a disquieting red glow.

But the bed is comfortable—really comfortable, in fact, and now that they’ve made contact with Dominique, they don’t have anything to do except lay low until their extraction tomorrow. Eve closes her eyes and burrows deeper into her pillow.

As she does, she hears a sudden soft intake of breath from Villanelle’s side of the bed. If Villanelle is awake too, Eve isn’t ready to talk to her yet—not before she gets at least a gallon of coffee into herself. She decides to feign sleep.

But Villanelle doesn’t seem to be stirring. Eve is almost convinced she imagined it when there’s another quiet gasp, like Villanelle is stifling a laugh. Eve focuses her hearing and notices a rhythmic rustling of fabric, too.

The realization hits her like a double-decker bus. Villanelle is _masturbating!_ Right next to her! Eve freezes, paralyzed with indecision. Say something? Scold her? Wait until she finishes?

Across the bed, Villanelle makes another tiny sound. Eve crushes her eyes shut. This is horrifically inappropriate. Profoundly unprofessional. An HR nightmare. And the worst thing about it is…

It’s kind of hot.

Eve, with a detached sort of horror, feels her body start to respond to the idea of Villanelle pleasuring herself, just out of reach. She squeezes her thighs together. There’s no way this is happening. There’s no way she’s going to—

Villanelle seems to change rhythm, and takes a whispery, trembling breath, biting off the very beginning of a moan, or maybe a whimper. Maybe she thinks Eve is a heavy enough sleeper. Maybe she knows Eve is awake and is putting on a show. Eve doesn’t know what she wants to be true.

And without making a conscious decision, her hand slowly drifts towards the centre of her legs.

It only takes a few seconds of stroking before her fingers are wet and slick. She runs a finger in lazy circles around her clit, ears straining for another sound from Villanelle. She’s so turned on that she has butterflies in her stomach.

Villanelle’s breath is coming in soft, huffing gasps, and Eve can clearly hear the rustling of her hand under the cheap bedsheets. She wonders what, and who, Villanelle is thinking of. She wonders what Villanelle’s face looks like right now. She wonders, spitefully, how good Dominique could have been if Villanelle is back here, now, doing this.

Eve presses harder on her clit, remembers what Villanelle said back in her flat, a million years ago. _I masturbate about you a lot._ She wonders what that version of Villanelle would have to say about what’s happening right now.

She wonders if Villanelle’s other hand is touching the scar Eve gave her, and the thought that she might be is like a bolt of lightning directly to her pussy. She sucks in a sharp breath through her teeth—too sharp—and hears Villanelle startle—but not stop.

“E-eve?” Villanelle says in a ragged voice. Eve makes a sudden decision. She rolls over, hand still inside her panties, and makes direct eye contact with Villanelle, sleepy and flushed. She lets the bedsheets fall so Villanelle can see exactly where her hand is, and what it’s doing.

“Eve,” Villanelle says again, reaching out with her free hand, and Eve doesn’t know what else to do except offer hers—not her free hand, though. The one with two fingers shining up to the second knuckle.

Villanelle eyes it hungrily, desperately, then grabs Eve’s wrist in a firm, insistent grip and guides those fingers into her mouth. She rolls her eyes back under fluttering eyelids and grips Eve even tighter as she comes, sucking as much off of Eve’s fingers as she can.

Eve is so close to her own orgasm she thinks she could get there if she crosses her legs right. When Villanelle closes her teeth on Eve’s fingers, _hard,_ the jolt of pain hits her like another lightning bolt and sends her over the edge, shuddering.

Villanelle sinks back, letting Eve’s fingers fall wetly out of her mouth.

“Huh,” she says, breathless. “Good morning to you too, Eve.”

Eve can’t quite meet Villanelle’s eyes. “Good morning,” she says, examining the teeth marks on her fingers.

Villanelle sighs and licks her lips thoughtfully. “I’m hungry,” she says after a minute. “Are you hungry? Let’s get breakfast.”


	4. Mary Jane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content note: This chapter contains recreational drug use.

Villanelle wants to order room service. “For our cover,” she pouts, rolling around in the hideous fuchsia sheets. “The lazy newlyweds, remember? I’m _lazy_ , Eve. Don’t make me get out of this deceptively comfortable bed.”

Eve groans. “Don’t you want a break from this god-awful room?”

“I love it,” Villanelle says, automatically contrarian. “All the mirrors really do it for me. And the pink! So soothing.”

“Of course,” Eve sighs, stepping into her trousers. Getting dressed in front of Villanelle doesn’t feel as—well, as _charged_ as it did when Villanelle was changing last night. It feels… routine. Domestic, even. Though that feeling could also be the afterglow of—

Eve drops that line of thought like a venomous snake. She buckles her belt. “Get dressed, you big baby. Let’s go recon the buffet.”

* * *

Villanelle complains right up to the moment she sees the buffet itself. Then she cuts herself off mid-sentence and heads straight for the make-your-own-waffle station without another word. Eve laughs and makes an equally direct trip to the coffee.

They meet back at one of the tables. Villanelle smirks at Eve’s plate. “Bacon and eggs? Bold choice.”

Eve looks at the mountain of whipped cream and fruit that presumably hides a waffle in front of Villanelle. “I see you’re skipping straight to dessert.”

Villanelle’s smirk widens to a slightly unsettling smile. “You know what they say, Eve. Life’s short. Eat dessert first.”

They’re leaving the hotel restaurant when they run into Dominique. She smiles politely at Eve, but when Villanelle says a quiet _bonjour_ —a far cry from her seductive tone at dinner last night—Dominique appraises her coolly.

“ _Bonjour_ ,” she finally says, then turns on her heel and walks back to the elevators.

Eve looks at Villanelle, eyes wide. “Holy shit,” she blurts. “What _happened_ last night?”

Villanelle closes her eyes for a long moment, her face a mystery. When she opens them again, she’s wearing a big, fake smile.

“I have to run an errand,” she says. “I’ll see you later.” And then she’s gone too.

Eve waits until she’s sure she won’t run into Dominique at the elevators, then heads back to the room, shaking her head in bemusement.

* * *

Villanelle’s “errand” takes less than an hour. When she comes back to the suite, Eve is sprawled on the couch, which is not pink, but an alarming arterial red. Eve looks up from her crossword puzzle, pencil between her teeth.

“Hey,” she says. “You okay?”

“Fine,” says Villanelle. “Soon to be even more fine. Join me on the balcony.” It’s not really a request. Eve slips her shoes on and follows Villanelle outside.

She’s not sure what to expect, and then what she sees is so incongruous she momentarily can’t make sense of it at all. Villanelle is leaning against the balcony railing, scowling as she fusses with a lighter, a perfectly-rolled joint in her other hand.

“You’re kidding me,” says Eve. “Is that pot? Are we back in high school?”

Villanelle shoots her a withering glance and tosses her the lighter with a little too much force. “Shut up and light this thing for me.”

“Wow,” says Eve, not even bothering to restrain her laughter. “Now I’ve seen it all.”

But she lifts the lighter to the end of the joint in Villanelle’s mouth, resolutely _not_ thinking about what her fingers were doing the last time they were so close to Villanelle’s lips. It takes her a couple of tries—the lighter is a piece of crap—but she gets it lit, and Villanelle takes a long, grateful drag.

“Thanks,” she says when she exhales, politely away from Eve’s face. “You know how to treat a lady,” she winks.

Eve rolls her eyes. “Seriously, what the hell happened with you and Dominique? I thought—”

“Yeah,” Villanelle cuts her off. “It didn’t work out, okay?” She takes another hit. “It’s no big deal. She’s still defecting.”

“Jesus!” says Eve. “How badly did you fuck this up?”

But Villanelle just stares into the clouds of smoke she’s blowing over the railing and taps some ash from the end of the joint.

After a long silence she holds it out to Eve. Eve waves it away. “Seriously, I’m not 16 anymore.”

Villanelle frowns. “Maybe I want to tell you about Dominique. If you share this with me.”

Eve throws her hands in the air. “You’re fucking impossible.” Villanelle just shrugs, as if to say _you knew that_.

Eve snatches the joint out of Villanelle’s hand and takes a harsh, angry hit—and immediately doubles over in a fit of coughing.

Villanelle pats her on the back. “There there, Eve. You’ll get the hang of it.”

“You’re—not—funny— _Oksana_ ,” Eve manages.

Villanelle scoffs and takes the joint back. “Wrong. I am hilarious.”

They pass it back and forth for a few minutes, until Villanelle blurts, “I had sex with Dominique,” into the silence.

Eve, despite herself, giggles. “I know. You weren’t subtle.”

“Ughhh, give me a break.”

“Okay, sorry. Tell me something I don’t know, I guess?”

“I, uh.” Eve has never seen Villanelle like this. She seems genuinely bashful, genuinely embarrassed. It’s endearing, and also a little worrying. “F-fine,” stammers the internationally-feared assassin. “I may have accidentally called her… the wrong person’s name. While we were. You know.”

“You _didn’t_.” Eve’s jaw drops.

Villanelle nods slowly. “Long story short, I do not think I will be having sex with Dominique again.”

And Eve, personally, is fine with that.

( _Whose name_ , she wants to ask.)

Instead, she bumps her shoulder into Villanelle’s. “And here I thought you were smooth with the ladies.”

“Ex- _cuse_ me? I am _extremely_ smooth with _all_ of the ladies, Eve Polastri.”

Eve grins at her, head swimming. “At least you remembered my name.” Her shoulder drifts back towards Villanelle’s. They stand there, smoking and leaning on each other, for another few minutes.

“Do you want to watch a movie?” Villanelle asks.

“Mmm,” Eve says. “I would _love_ to watch a movie right now.”

Which is how they end up on the hellaciously red couch together watching _Clueless_. It’s not as comfortable as the bed, but it’s agreeably squashy, and it’s the easiest thing in the world for Eve to throw an arm around Villanelle and pull her close.

“Do you think room service would bring us popcorn?” Villanelle asks after a while.

Eve laughs. “You have the munchies.”

“We’re watching a movie!” Villanelle says. “You need popcorn to watch a movie.” She hits pause—Alicia Silverstone freezes midway through playing matchmaker for her teachers—and pouts up at Eve from where she’s snuggled under her arm. “And I’m having a _very_ difficult day. Please?”

Eve rolls her eyes, but she reaches for the phone.


	5. Mischief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains more recreational drug use, as well as explicit sexual content.

_Oh yeah,_ Eve thinks as she wakes up. _Smoking pot makes me sleepy._

Head still a little foggy, she takes stock of her surroundings. She’s lying down on the Very Red Couch. The TV is showing the pay-per-view movies menu. There are—strong, warm arms around her? Soft breasts pressing into her back?

 _I’m spooning with Villanelle,_ Eve realizes. _Villanelle is spooning me._ Villanelle’s lips are about half an inch from the side of Eve’s neck; her breath is slow and regular—and warm, and humid. Eve suppresses a shiver, closes her eyes, tries to commit everything about this to her sense memory.

Villanelle murmurs in her sleep and Eve feels it resonate in her own ribcage. It’s hard to tell, but it might have been “Cher Horowitz.” Eve smiles.

She focuses on the feeling of Villanelle’s warm belly against the small of her back, trying to feel the scar. She thinks she can, a little ridge right against her spine. _I could have killed her,_ Eve thinks for the millionth time. It seems impossible: the woman behind her feels so warm and alive. But her life is just as fragile as Eve’s. As anyone’s.

Villanelle shifts and sighs a long sigh against Eve’s neck. “You’re awake,” she says, lips brushing Eve’s skin. Eve takes an extremely controlled breath.

“I am,” she says, voice rough from sleep and smoke.

“Good. Get up. I have to pee.”

Eve rolls off the couch and onto her feet, only a little unsteady. Villanelle rises in a single lithe motion and heads for the washroom.

Eve thinks about texting Niko while Villanelle is in the loo, but what would she say? “Work trip’s going great, we’re getting stoned and watching 90’s movies and trying to convince the hotel staff we’re fucking”? “Hey hon, just escalating the sexual tension with my frenemy the assassin, of whom you are rightly terrified, wish you were here”?

She checks her phone. No messages anyway. Best just to leave it.

Villanelle comes out of the washroom in a sulk. “I cannot believe Dominique. I make one little mistake and boom, she hates me. It was an accident! It’s not like I _forgot_ her name, I just… said the wrong one.”

Eve is trying not to smile, but she’s not trying very hard. Villanelle, who couldn’t possibly have been expecting sympathy, opens up her clutch and removes another joint. “I’m going to smoke this until I feel less grouchy.”

She doesn’t seem to want company this time. Eve doesn’t mind. “I’m going to take a shower,” she says. “Then maybe we can talk about dinner.” Villanelle nods curtly and steps out onto the balcony.

Eve takes a change of clothes out of her suitcase, intending to undress in the bathroom, but Villanelle’s tease yesterday surfaces in her mind, and she has a different idea. _Two can play at that game,_ Eve thinks. She remembers that Villanelle has already seen her naked. The first time they met, even. So this isn’t a big deal at all.

She pulls her sweater over her head and lets it fall to the floor, hoping the motion will catch Villanelle’s eye through the window. She unbuckles her belt, and bends over awkwardly to both slide her trousers down her legs and try to clock Villanelle’s reflection in one of the room’s many, many mirrors.

Sure enough, Villanelle is leaning against the balcony railing, staring into the hotel room. Watching Eve. She doesn’t dare look at Villanelle directly while she steps out of her trousers, kicks off her socks, unclasps her bra. To her surprise, her confidence _increases_ as she loses clothes—because, she realizes, she knows the effect this is having on Villanelle.

Eve takes her panties off in as smooth a motion as she can manage, and then she’s standing in the hotel room, back to the balcony doors, fully naked. It’s a struggle worthy of Orpheus not to look over her shoulder as she walks to the washroom.

* * *

The shower is amazing. Huge, for one thing—it has benches like a sauna—and the entire ceiling is one big shower head, so the whole experience is like being inside a perfectly controlled rainstorm.

Eve runs her hands through her soaking wet hair. She never wants to leave this shower. Forward all her calls here. Hold all their MI6 meetings here.

There’s a soft knock at the bathroom door, and it opens a crack. “Eve?” says Villanelle.

Eve freezes under the warm water. The butterflies in her stomach are back. “Y-yeah?” she says, trying to sound like a normal person being interrupted in a shower, trying to keep any hint of an invitation out of her voice.

All of that’s for naught, because the next thing Villanelle says is, “Do you want some company?” She pokes her head around the door, hair down, ensconced in a fluffy—and, of course, pink—bathrobe.

Eve feels like she’s floating, and it’s not the aftereffects of the weed. She feels like she’s outside her own body as she hears herself say, “Sure,” and sees Villanelle walk in.

“Pretty great shower, right?” says Villanelle, hanging the robe on the back of the door. She’s nude underneath, and when she steps into the massive shower cubicle, Eve lets herself stare.

She takes her in a piece at a time: the muscles of her shoulders and arms; the roundness of her breasts and the slight softness at her stomach; a precisely trimmed thatch of dark-blonde hair where her thighs join. And in the middle of it all: Eve’s scar.

“I know, right?” says Villanelle, preening under Eve’s attention. “All these brains, and looks too.”

Eve could think up a comeback, but she’d have to stop staring at Villanelle’s hips, Villanelle’s thighs, Villanelle’s stomach and the scar… she snaps out of her trance and laughs belatedly at Villanelle’s audacious ego.

Eve decides to get on with the business of showering like this is perfectly normal, like she’d just as readily strip down and jump into a shower with Carolyn, or Kenny, or Elena. She goes back to rinsing conditioner out of her hair and cocks an eyebrow. “Impatient?”

It’s Villanelle’s turn to stare. She looks Eve up and down like no one has ever looked at her before. Like Eve is a priceless piece of art that Villanelle is here to steal.

Eve is so turned on she can’t think clearly. And any remaining shreds of rational thought are lost when Villanelle walks up to her, close enough that Eve can feel water splashing off of Villanelle’s body onto hers. Eve swallows. There’s no more conditioner to rinse out of her hair.

“Eve,” says Villanelle. “I wanted to talk about this morning.”

This morning. When Villanelle sucked Eve’s fingers clean and they both got off on it. Eve has been spending the rest of the day pretending that never happened. She absolutely does not want to talk about it.

“Here?” Eve says. “Now? In the shower, while we’re both naked?”

“Well… yeah?” says Villanelle, hand slipping between her legs. “I want to do it again.”

* * *

Eve seems stunned. She sits down in the corner of the shower stall, where two benches meet. Villanelle’s heart sinks. “Did I misunder—” She stops when she realizes what Eve is doing.

What Eve is doing is sitting with her back to the wall and her feet up on the benches like stirrups, so Villanelle can see—well, everything. Her mouth waters. When Eve closes her eyes and starts touching herself, Villanelle thinks she might pass out for a second.

Villanelle takes a step towards Eve, eyes locked to Eve’s fingers. Eve grins at her. Now the shoe’s on the other foot, she’s probably thinking. Now Villanelle is the flustered one. An easy target.

Villanelle is never an easy target.

But then Eve’s middle finger slips inside herself, and she moans loud enough to be heard over the falling water, and Villanelle isn’t so sure.

Eve’s eyes open, and she looks meaningfully below Villanelle’s waist. Villanelle gets the message. She’s not surprised to find herself wet, and she wastes no time rubbing firm circles around her clit.

“Yes,” Eve says, “yes.” She starts fucking herself with an additional finger, other hand coming up to pinch one of her own nipples. Villanelle takes mental notes, watching what Eve does and doesn’t do to pleasure herself. Just in case.

She takes another step towards Eve, and now she’s practically standing between Eve’s legs. Eve looks up at her, eyes wide and wild, breath coming hard and fast.

Villanelle’s getting close to orgasm. She switches from her left hand to her right to delay things a little, and holds her left hand out to Eve, whose feet slide off the benches as she lunges forward to capture Villanelle’s fingertips in her mouth, sucking fervently.

Eve’s tongue is electric against Villanelle’s fingers, and Villanelle can’t help but imagine that tongue put to work somewhere else, and that bit of imagination puts her right at the edge. She opens her mouth for Eve’s fingers and tastes her again, like she did this morning, like she will when she finally goes down on Eve one day—all the muscles in her legs tremble as she rides that thought through her orgasm.

Eve, tasting Villanelle for the first time, is coming too, head thrown back against the tile wall, crying out wordlessly around Villanelle’s fingers. Villanelle expects her to bite down, but she doesn’t. This time.

Villanelle collapses on the bench next to Eve, breathing heavily. Eve looks over at her. “Good talk,” she says with a wry smile.


	6. Merde

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The recreational drug use continues/concludes in this chapter, which also includes brief but intense violence.

They don’t talk about it again. They end up smoking Villanelle’s last joint and watching _Grosse Pointe Blank_ in bed, surrounded by a room service feast.

It’s the most fun Eve has had in… she can’t even remember how long. Villanelle laughs a little too hard every time John Cusack kills someone, and—to Eve’s complete and total lack of surprise—swoons every time Minnie Driver is on screen.

“I love this movie,” she says, gesturing emphatically with a chocolate-covered strawberry.

“Really?” says Eve. “You’re not bothered that it’s nothing like… you know, actually being a professional assassin?”

Villanelle makes her “dumb question, Eve” face. “It is a movie. It does not have to be realistic. Real life is realistic. Movies are movies.”

Eve considers this. It’s a fair point, but she’d hate to concede it to Villanelle.

* * *

When Eve wakes up the next morning, Villanelle isn’t on the other side of the bed touching herself. She’s cuddled up right behind Eve, arm carelessly thrown over her, snoring softly into her ear.

It’s nice. Really nice. _Way too_ nice. Eve shouldn’t be here—not in the same hotel room as Villanelle, certainly not in the same bed, and absolutely not in her arms.

At the same time, Eve knows this is it: the last day of the mission. The last time she’ll wake up to Villanelle. The end of this bubble they’ve been living in, of room service and 90’s movies and getting high. She can feel it coming apart already, ephemeral, and it puts a feeling in her stomach she doesn’t know how to catalogue.

Eve indulges herself for a few more moments before slowly, carefully freeing herself and sitting up to check her phone.

T-minus two hours till their extraction. They’re to use the hotel’s self-checkout and leave through the loading dock, where an unmarked van will take them to a private airstrip. Eve worked out the details herself. It’s a good plan.

* * *

#### Two hours later

The plan is fucked.

Dominique notices the first problem from a distance: their getaway driver is slumped over the wheel, and a black-clad figure is lurking next to the van. Then Villanelle clocks a rooftop sniper and pulls Eve and Dominique into a recessed doorway.

“Okay,” she says cheerfully. “Time for Plan B. Dominique, _allez sur le toit. J’ai vu une échelle là-bas._ ” She points to an alleyway along the building.

Dominique nods once and slips off to the ladder.

“What are we going to do?” hisses Eve.

Villanelle’s jaw is set firmly. “I’m going to take care of the one by the van. But I need you to distract him.”

“Distract him? What if he’s got a gun?”

“If he’s got a gun, he wouldn’t need a sniper on the roof. Give me a minute to get behind him, then get his attention, okay? I need you to do this for me.”

Eve nods reluctantly, and looks down at her feet. When she looks back up, Villanelle is gone. She counts slowly, one-Mississippi to sixty-Mississippi, then steps out of the doorway and starts walking towards the van.

Eve waves. “Hi there! Do you know the way to Market Square, I am just _so_ lost.” She continues babbling loudly as she approaches the mysterious figure, who seems to be talking into an earpiece without getting a response.

When she’s about 15 feet away, Villanelle appears suddenly out of the darkness holding… a shiny circle? She slips it over the stranger’s head and pulls it tight. It’s a garotte.

The man tries to elbow Villanelle in the gut, tries to stomp on her feet, tries to claw at her eyes, but she’s too agile for him, and the wire of the garotte is digging deep into the flesh of his neck. His eyes bulge. His choking turns to gagging as his airway collapses, bubbles of blood bursting at his lips. He turns red, then purple, then blue. He falls to his knees. He pisses himself when he dies.

Eve doesn’t see any of this. Her eyes are intent on Villanelle’s face, scanning every micro-expression, every flicker of her hazel eyes, every little fluttering gasp she gives as the life drains out of the man’s body.

It reminds Eve of Villanelle in the shower, Villanelle in the bed. It reminds her of that feeling in her stomach she’s not thinking about.

Someone touches Eve gently on the elbow and she jumps a mile. It’s only Dominique, with a massive rifle slung over her shoulder. She shrugs apologetically. Despite the tension between her and Villanelle, Eve is extremely glad she’s here. A year ago, Eve would have died of fear if she found herself between two psychopathic assassins. Now it feels like the safest place she could be.

Villanelle and Dominique exchange a few sentences of quick, clipped French, then Villanelle turns to Eve to catch her up.

“If they got our driver, they probably got our pilot. We need to find another way out of the country.”


	7. Moonlight

The backup plan is risky: it involves commercial flights, Eve’s blunt-force social engineering, and Villanelle’s complete and total lack of shame. Dominique, having reluctantly ditched her stolen sniper rifle, watches their six all the way to the airport, but the Twelve—or whoever—don’t seem to be in pursuit.

Once they’re through security, they’re pretty much home free. Eve texts an update to Carolyn: `Plan A compromised. Switching to Plan B. See you soon.` She thinks about sending one to Niko too, but decides against it. It’s the middle of the night in London. She’ll see him when she gets home.

It’s going to be a seven-hour flight back. Villanelle charms a desk agent into bumping them to first class—even Dominique, who behind her immediate professionalism is clearly still in a sulk, gets upgraded, though she’s a few rows back from where Eve and Villanelle will be sitting.

Their flight boards 20 minutes late. Dominique gets antsy, Eve starts grinding her teeth, and Villanelle strains to eavesdrop on the airline employees discussing the delay. It seems to be routine difficulties loading baggage, but none of them relax until their section is called.

Finally, there’s nothing left to do but get comfortable and wait for takeoff. Villanelle orders a glass of champagne; Eve gets a gin and tonic. They sit across from each other and toast.

“To our first successful mission,” Eve says, raising her glass.

Villanelle clinks it. “Successful in _so_ many ways,” she says, looking at Eve from under her eyelashes. Eve looks away, hoping the dim light of the plane will hide her blush.

Once they reach cruising altitude, Eve gets her laptop out and starts writing up the mission report. Across from her, Villanelle sips champagne delicately, apparently engrossed by an in-flight magazine article on sustainable farming.

A second glass of champagne and a few pages of Eve’s report later, the magazine, and Villanelle’s eyes, start to droop. Eve expects her to either fall asleep sitting straight up, or spread out over the pair of seats on her side. Instead, after a theatrical yawn, she crosses over to the seat next to Eve and lays her head on Eve’s shoulder.

Eve looks down at the top of her head, bemused but not displeased. Villanelle, sleepy, mumbles something that might be “M’last chance,” and dozes off almost at once. Eve’s lips quirk—there’s that feeling in her stomach again—and she goes back to typing.

Villanelle is still snuggled warm against Eve’s side when she finishes her report. As Eve carefully stows her laptop, the flight attendant comes by and smiles indulgently. Villanelle had insisted on maintaining their newlywed cover for the flight, and Eve supposes—in the absence of any context, of course—that they probably look pretty cute right now.

“Can I get you two a blanket?” the flight attendant asks softly.

“That would be lovely, thank you,” Eve whispers back.

The flight attendant brings back a soft, dark blue blanket with the airline logo embroidered on the corners, and draws a curtain in front of their seats when she leaves. Eve arranges the blanket carefully around Villanelle and herself, and after a long moment of indecision, allows herself to rest her head on top of Villanelle’s. It’s more comfortable than it has any right to be.

* * *

Eve only manages a couple hours of sleep. She dreams she’s in a factory with Villanelle and Niko, climbing on catwalks high above crashing machinery. Niko and Villanelle are arguing, but Eve can’t make it out.

Then she’s at Niko’s school, in a crowded auditorium. Villanelle is presenting him with a medal that says BEST TEACHER on it. Niko holds it up and turns it over to show the crowd: the reverse says BEST HUSBAND. Villanelle takes it back, places it ceremonially around his neck, and begins to strangle him with it.

Then Eve is in the safe house where Frank died, in the bedroom where they found him. His body is gone, but the bedspread is still covered in his blood. Villanelle is there too, in one of the fluffy pink bathrobes from the honeymoon suite.

“Come on, Eve,” she says, accent thick with lust. “You know you want to taste me again.” She bites her lower lip and opens the bathrobe.

Eve wakes up, pussy throbbing. The warmth and weight of Villanelle against her isn’t comforting anymore; it’s unbearably arousing. Eve can’t help but imagine the full weight of Villanelle’s body on top of her, pinning her to the bed. She remembers straddling Villanelle in her Paris apartment, knife still planted in her belly, and imagines for the hundredth time that scene without the knife.

Eve looks at the privacy curtain shielding their seats from the aisle. She considers the blanket covering her and Villanelle, essentially from chin to ankle. And she considers how wet her panties already are—very—and what a pain it would be to dig a fresh pair out of her carry-on at this stage of the trip.

It’s not like she’d be crossing a line, Eve thinks. After the past couple of days? This is practically tame for the two of them. Old hat.

Eve’s fingers rest thoughtfully on her stomach. Then they drift lower.

It’s a heroic achievement not to gasp when her hand reaches its goal. She can feel the dampness there through the slacks she’s wearing. She squeezes herself tightly and feels waves of sensation spread through her body. She’s never masturbated in public before; the dual thrill of potentially getting caught by Villanelle and potentially getting caught by, well, anyone else—is potent.

She can’t wait any longer. She unfastens the front of her slacks and eases open the zipper as quietly as she can, then slides her hand into her underwear, down through wiry black hair to where she’s hot, and wet, and ready.

Villanelle stirs, and Eve’s clit practically jumps. Doing this with Villanelle asleep is unbelievably hot. Doing it with her awake? Eve can’t even imagine.

“Eve?” Villanelle says, voice scratchy and low. “Are you…?” Under the blanket, she touches Eve’s forearm, runs her fingers down to Eve’s wrist, stops at the waistband of her pants.

“Oh,” says Villanelle. “Mmmmm.”

She snuggles in even closer to Eve, fingers of one hand still running up and down her arm. She squirms in her seat a bit, and Eve figures she’s not the only one unzipping herself one-handed.

The gasp that Villanelle quickly stifles confirms it for Eve. She nuzzles her way up Eve’s neck, until her forehead is pressed hard against Eve’s temple, arm moving rhythmically under the blanket. Her lips are right next to Eve’s—it’s the closest Eve has ever been to another person’s mouth _without_ kissing them—and Eve can feel Villanelle’s hot breath across her lips.

“Eve,” Villanelle moans, directly into Eve’s right ear.

“I know,” Eve whispers back. “I know.”

Despite Eve’s head start, Villanelle comes first. She bites Eve’s earlobe again, an absolutely delicious jolt of pain on top of Eve’s pleasure, and when she raises wet fingers from under the blanket, Eve doesn’t hesitate to take them in her mouth.

Villanelle’s fingers taste tangy, musky, slightly sweet. Eve can’t get enough, licking and sucking desperately, wondering how different Villanelle tastes at her core, wondering if she’ll ever find out.

This time she does bite Villanelle’s fingers when she comes, almost hard enough to draw blood. Eve whimpers, once, but is otherwise silent. Villanelle watches her with wide eyes, mouth slightly open.

“ _Eve_ ,” she says, and Eve presses their foreheads together.

“Yeah,” Eve says. “I know.”

She can feel Villanelle’s breath against her mouth. She can feel her own breath bouncing back off Villanelle’s. They’re maybe an inch away from kissing, but neither makes a move to advance. They just sit, forehead to forehead, cheek to cheek, drawing out the moment as long as they can.


	8. Momentum

Villanelle knows she’s supposed to avoid Niko, okay? Technically the fact that she works for MI6 at all is classified, so there’s that, but also he remembers all the stuff Villanelle did when she worked for the Twelve, and unlike _some people_ , he doesn’t seem terribly motivated to get over it.

And if that wasn’t awkward enough, Villanelle really, _really_ wants to fuck his wife.

So it’s not exactly an ideal situation when he’s waiting for them at the MI6 offices when they finally return.

“Eve!” he cries as soon as he sees her. “When you didn’t come home this morning, I thought…”

He trails off as he sees Villanelle standing behind her, doing absolutely nothing to hide. His face turns ashen. Villanelle wonders if his mustache is going to fall out from stress.

“What,” Niko says in a completely different register, “is _she_ doing here?”

Eve sputters.

“Are you… are you _working_ with her now? She broke into our _house_ , Eve! She _killed Bill!_ She’s a murderous psychopath and now she’s, what, your work mate?”

The look on his face gains another dimension of despair. “Wait—is this _Samantha?_ Did you—you _lied_ to me, Eve! What the _hell_.”

Poor Eve is speechless. Villanelle feels like she could say something here, but nothing especially clever comes to mind.

Niko shakes his head. His nostrils flare. “You’re a real piece of work, Eve Polastri.” His voice is trembling. “I don’t even know _what_ to think about you anymore.” He looks from Eve to Villanelle and back to Eve, then storms out the door.

“Well,” says Carolyn, who’s been standing there the whole time. “Shall we get to the debriefing?”

* * *

To Eve’s relief and Villanelle’s surprise, Carolyn is pleased with the “overall success, generally” of their mission. Apparently MI6 expects Dominique to be that valuable. Villanelle is not convinced.

After the debriefing, Villanelle finds Eve in her office, listlessly spinning in her desk chair.

“Hey,” says Villanelle.

“Hey,” says Eve, not looking up.

“Uh, sorry about your husband?” Villanelle says half-heartedly. Based on Eve’s scowl, she probably shouldn’t have bothered.

Eve’s scowl seems to spread to her whole body, and she stands up quickly enough that her chair goes rolling back a foot or two. She gets all the way into Villanelle’s personal space, and it’s way too sexy.

“What do you _want_ from me, Oksana?” Eve hisses.

Villanelle pauses. She doesn’t feel like lying to Eve, but she’s not sure Eve deserves the truth, either.

What she really wants to say is, _I want whatever you will give me. I’m greedy, I want it all, but I want you so badly that I will take whatever I can get. Even if it’s scraps._

What she does say is, “I want to watch movies with you. Okay? In the hotel room, back there… I really liked that. I wish that could be, you know, a part of my life.”

She looks down at the floor. It needs to be swept.

“I liked it too,” Eve says softly, and puts her finger under Villanelle’s chin to lift it up. She licks her lips and leans towards Villanelle, but Villanelle holds out a hand and stops her.

“Eve, wait,” she says. “I don’t want our first kiss to be revenge against your husband.”

“What?” Eve says. “It’s not—I’m not—are you serious right now?”

“No,” says Villanelle. “I don’t care. Kiss me, please.”

So Eve does. She pushes Villanelle right up against the desk, grabs her by the jaw, and pulls her in for a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss.

Villanelle moans into Eve and arches her back. She clutches at Eve’s waist, at her hips, at her hair. She bites Eve’s lower lip and licks her way into Eve’s mouth.

“Mmmm,” Eve says, “okay, stop, wait.” She pushes Villanelle off of her. “This is complicated enough. You need to tell me something.”

“What?” Villanelle cocks her head, brows furrowed. “What?”

Eve pokes her in the chest. “Whose name did you say when you were with Dominique?”

Villanelle’s bluster drops, but only for a second. “Are _you_ serious? Can’t we just make out?”

Eve folds her arms. “Not until I know. You know about Niko. You know _all_ about Niko. So tell me about this.”

Villanelle groans. “This is such a mood-killer, Eve.”

“We can get right back to the mood as soon as you tell me.”

Villanelle closes her eyes, calculating the costs and benefits of potential lies and evasions. But she wants her tongue back in Eve’s mouth, so she takes the shortest route instead: the truth.

“It was your name, stupid.”

“W-what?”

“I called her ‘Eve’ while she was eating me out. Okay? It was extremely embarrassing for everyone involved, and now you get to share in that wonderful feeling. Are you happy now?”

Eve looks stunned. Villanelle wants to scream. Finally Eve’s lips curl up into a smile.

“Huh,” she says, and her smile broadens to a full-fledged grin, with teeth. “Okay. Come here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and commenting on this silly little fic! You're all wonderful. <3


	9. Mirage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …yeah, I couldn’t let it end like that. Call this an encore. (Or a victory lap.)

Kissing Villanelle is nothing like kissing Niko. It doesn’t even feel like it should be the same verb. Not that she’d call Niko a bad kisser—not that she _would have_ , at least, before this—but Niko’s always just a little too tentative with her, a little too proper, and he’s had that mustache since 2004.

Villanelle, meanwhile, kisses like she’s trying to climb down Eve’s throat, like she’s trying to devour her from the inside out, and Eve wants to let her. Villanelle bites her lower lip, hard, then soothes it with a swipe from her tongue. She grabs at Eve’s waist, pulling her as close as she can get her, sitting back on the desk and opening her legs to pull Eve closer still.

Villanelle’s thighs are warm where they bracket Eve’s hips. Her hands are warm. Her breasts are warm against Eve’s chest. She rakes her nails gently up Eve’s back and Eve arches into her, she threads her fingers into Eve’s hair and Eve thinks she’s going to pull it (hopes she’s going to pull it) but she doesn’t, Eve could ask her to pull it but she’d have to stop kissing her, and if she stops kissing Villanelle right now she might die.

Eve fits perfectly between Villanelle’s legs, she realizes. Like she was born to have them wrapped around her. She rolls her hips, grinding herself into Villanelle, and Villanelle moans into her mouth, and god damn it, Eve’s going to need to change her underwear _again_ before the drive home.

When they finally stop to catch their breath, Villanelle is flushed, eyes bright. She smiles at Eve with slightly swollen lips and squeezes Eve between her thighs. “I have been waiting for that,” she says triumphantly, “for so fucking long.”

Eve laughs, breathless. “Yeah,” she says, “tell me about it.”

Villanelle chews on her lower lip. “You probably need to go home,” she says. She doesn’t sound happy about it.

Eve thinks about it. What’s waiting for her at home? More shouting and accusations if Niko’s awake; the sofa bed in their living room pulled out if he’s already gone up to bed. This isn’t _revenge_ against Niko, no matter what Villanelle says. This isn’t about Niko at all.

It’s about Eve, and it’s about Oksana, and everyone else can go to hell.

Eve leans in and gently nips the side of Villanelle’s neck with her teeth. Villanelle jumps, then growls appreciatively. “I do,” Eve admits into the soft cup of Villanelle’s ear, “but not yet.”

Eve can feel Villanelle’s whole body react, and for a moment she almost laughs. It’s suddenly ridiculous to her—two grown women acting like helplessly horny teenagers—but then Villanelle reaches up and oh-so-gently runs a thumb across the surface of Eve’s breast, flicking right over the nipple, and the tension snaps back into the room.

It’s the first time Villanelle has touched her like that. Eve hopes it won’t be the last.

“Tell me what you want,” Eve says.

“What I want,” echoes Villanelle curiously.

“One thing,” says Eve, “tell me one thing you want, before I go home.” She takes a breath. “Anything.”

Villanelle’s hazel eyes are locked onto Eve, like she’s a mirage that will vanish if Villanelle looks away. There’s a question in her eyes. Eve answers it with a silent nod.

“One thing,” repeats Villanelle slowly. “Okay.” She smiles with all of her teeth. “I want you to fuck me with your mouth.”

Eve stands up straight, triumphant. “Oh, I hoped you were going to ask for that.” She reaches for Villanelle’s waist, unbuckling her belt and unfastening the front. Villanelle slides them down unceremoniously, hooking her thumbs in her underwear to bring it down too. She kicks everything off her feet and leans back against the desk, long pale legs opening again for Eve.

Eve can smell Villanelle’s arousal. It reminds her of the taste of Villanelle’s fingers on the plane. It’s intoxicating, and she needs more of it. She drops to her knees in front of the desk. The worshipful position is not lost on her. She leans close and breathes in deep.

“Eve, _please_.” Villanelle is copiously, visibly wet. Eve’s mouth waters. She’s never even fantasized about eating out another woman before, but right here, in this moment, it feels like she’s dying of thirst and this is the only thing that could possibly quench it.

She drags her tongue up Villanelle in a long, slow lick, stopping just before her clit. Villanelle moans and tilts her hips up, as though Eve isn’t deliberately teasing her, as if it were only a matter of access.

Eve stops to kiss Villanelle on the inside of the right thigh, then her left. Villanelle moans, or growls. “Eve,” she says again, and it almost sounds like a warning. Eve doesn’t need to be told twice.

She wraps her arms around Villanelle’s bare thighs to steady herself, and begins licking in earnest. Sure, technically she’s never done this before, but she’s had it done _to_ her plenty of times, and it’s not like it’s rocket science. Villanelle’s reactions are all the guidance she needs.

“Put your tongue inside me, Eve, please,” Villanelle begs, and Eve does exactly that, reveling in her feel and her smell and her taste. Villanelle bucks her hips, grinding herself into Eve’s mouth, and Eve tightens her grip on Villanelle’s thighs, trying to keep her still, or at least keep her from bucking Eve off.

“Now my clit,” Villanelle says, “suck my clit,” and Eve thinks _Of course she’s a bossy bottom_ with a savage fondness. She fastens her lips around Villanelle’s clit and strokes it with her tongue, faster, faster still, until Villanelle is keening above her, hands on the back of Eve’s head, her entire body convulsing.

“Come up here,” Villanelle says once she’s caught her breath, and Eve stands up, wincing at a pain in her knee. _Worth it,_ she thinks. Villanelle wraps her arms around Eve’s neck and starts kissing her come off of Eve’s lips. Eve chuckles into her mouth and winds her own arms around Villanelle’s waist.

They kiss for several more minutes before Villanelle realizes she’s still half-naked. As she gets back into her clothes, Eve looks at the clock. If she gets home any later, it’ll be morning.

“I have to go,” she says to Villanelle.

“I know,” Villanelle nods. “That was the deal.” She’s pouting a little, but Eve can tell she’s trying not to pout a _lot_ , and seeing Villanelle make that effort makes Eve feel ways she can’t even begin to unpack right now.

She leans forward to kiss Villanelle, a quick kiss, an easy intimacy that comes much easier than it should for either of them.

Villanelle licks her lips and winks. “Drive safe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, NOW it's over. But this was way too much fun to write, so don't be surprised if there's a sequel someday, once my creative batteries recharge a little.
> 
> Thanks again, truly, for the overwhelming response to this fic. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Title from ["Two Faced Twin"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PviUKYFzlvU) by Gregory and the Hawk.


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